


sweat carves a screenplay

by knowyourwayinthedark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, BDSM, Confused Masochist With Issues, Dom/sub, M/M, Painplay, Reluctant Sadist, Service subbing ish, Waxplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:06:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowyourwayinthedark/pseuds/knowyourwayinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinky things lead to other kinky things, hurrah.</p>
<p>This fic became like 8 gazillion different idfests at once so bear with me hhhhh</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweat carves a screenplay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



“Hold the candle,” Javert says, and, bemused, Valjean reaches for the pewter candlestick.

But, “No,” comes the second order, calm as always, “I do not mean the candlestick, I mean the candle.”

Valjean hesitates. Javert raises his eyebrows.

“Monsieur,” Valjean says, at last, and tugs the candle from the candlestick, the wax greasy on his fingertips.

They are in the bedroom. Javert sits at the desk, surrounded by papers, his back rigid and his fingers neat on his pen. A keen observer, skilled at extrapolation, might note the faint wrinkles at the front of his trousers, and the signs of a shirt re-tucked, and the slightly swollen lips of the man who stands attentive beside him. Otherwise, the image is one of perfect respectability, every object and man in the room placed with care.

It is something they do, now and then, playing at master and servant, organizing themselves into neat roles. They have long since tried and discarded the act of guard and prisoner – too close to old wounds, too true to unpleasant memories; Javert had been the one to stop, flinging down the cane and babbling apologies, though had he waited a moment longer Valjean would have ended it first.

Now Javert pushes carefully, with quiet commands only, not with the force of his hand, and Valjean bends rather than breaks. It is a peculiar echo of Montreuil, the play of authority between a superior and an inferior, and indeed, Javert seems to draw on some of the mannerisms of Monsieur Madeleine, certain patterns of speech and motion, the distant inexorability. But Madeleine had never wanted a man between his legs, sucking dutifully, had never wanted anyone to crouch so that he might rest his feet upon them – Javert requests all these things, and more, and Valjean submits without reluctance to a kinder sort of punishment. It lasts for as long as they want it to last, it is unconstrained by the urges of flesh – Javert has already spent in Valjean’s mouth today, but afterwards had remained authoritative, stayed sitting at the desk as if it were a throne, and ordered Valjean to stand at his side.

And now Javert directs him with short gestures of his hand, hardly sparing him a glance. “Come closer. Hold your hand a little higher – to the left – step a little closer.” Valjean is at his shoulder, now, close enough to feel the warmth of his body. “Raise the candle – there. Hold still.”

Valjean is still. Javert returns to his work, pen scratching on the paper.

It is like when he is Javert’s footrest, Valjean realizes, a few long minutes later. The unnecessary burden of thought is relieved from him, and what is requested of him is simple. He needs only to stand still and make sure the light does not flicker – but it is more difficult than he had realized, for the pool of molten wax around the wick is brimming over, and the candle is too stubby for his fingers to hold it any distance from the heat. Thus, when he shifts his weight after a few minutes more, liquid heat spills down the side of the candle, over his fingers, and before he can catch it, a drop falls and lands on Javert’s hand –

Cool eyes meet his, and he flushes.

“That hurt,” Javert states. Unsure of what to do, Valjean stays quiet and still, and keeps his hand perfectly steady.

Slowly, Javert slides his papers to the side, turns his chair, and takes the candle from Valjean’s unresisting fingers. “Kneel,” he says, and then, after Valjean has dropped to the floor at his feet, “Roll up your sleeves, hold out your hands. Lift them up.”

Even the realization of Javert’s intent does not quite lessen the pain of the blistering droplets that land on his palm and his wrist and the thinner skin of his inner forearm – sudden, white-hot points that diminish immediately into a stinging burn, the hardening wax tightening the skin beneath it. Positioned like a supplicant, Valjean’s arms are angled such that some of the wax runs down his forearms before it cools and hardens, thin trails of fire that make him flinch and his eyes squeeze shut. Sweat prickles on his forehead.

When next he looks up at Javert’s face, the wooden calm that was there has – shifted, a fraction of an inch.

“You are all right?”

That is new. There had always been a tightness to Javert’s motions that Valjean had noted, a deliberate care, as though he was always suppressing some other instinct – as if the structure and order of their games was intended not only for Valjean, but for Javert, too, and for some wilder desire that he had feared, and tamped down, and –

Now Javert looks afraid, and a little desperate, and under it all is a painful hunger. The twitch of his hand could almost be an accident, but it tilts the candle once more, and hot wax falls to splatter again on Valjean’s hands and wrists. Valjean flinches again, hissing; his forearms jerk back involuntarily, his only thought to cradle his hands to his chest until the searing pain eases.

“Valjean.” Javert is staring at him helplessly. The candle tilts again; Valjean gasps at this new splatter of liquid heat, and Javert shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable. “Valjean, if you want me to stop,” he begins in low tones.

Valjean has to struggle to find words for a moment – then he shakes his head, manages to say, “No – it is all right,” and for the life of him he cannot quite grasp why.

It is hard to keep his thoughts in line, as Javert leans forward to pour white fire on the thin skin near the crooks of his elbows, as he begins to be uncomfortably aware of a stirring between his legs – it is all wholly unexpected – but he comes to realize that the pain is not like the pain of backbreaking work, or the brutal strike of a club, or the eternal, grating weight of shackles; it burns away the smell of salt and labor and memories of rubbed-raw wrists and instead all he is aware of is Javert’s face, Javert, wondrous, drinking in his reactions to each drip of molten wax.

He spreads his knees, a tiny movement. Javert’s gaze flicks there immediately; Valjean feels the absence of Javert’s eyes on his face almost instantly, like coming into the shade.

Javert is still for a long moment. Then he runs his tongue over his lips, sets the candle down, and takes Valjean’s wrists in a loose grasp, running his thumbs across them, lightly enough that only some of the thinner drips of now-hardened wax crumble away, exposing skin flushed red and tender. When Javert strokes again, Valjean bites his tongue and tries not to squirm. Even this is torturous, the buzz of sensation crawling across his skin with each touch a maddening mix of pain and pleasure.

Another caress, but this time Javert slips a thumbnail under the edge of a thicker piece of wax that has hardened like a plate, and as the wax peels away the slow scrape of Javert’s nail over the skin beneath is – Valjean gropes for a word, he has no reference for this, he does not know whether he wishes this feeling to end or continue forever.

More wax falls away, pulling small hairs free, tiny tugging pinpricks of discomfort. Valjean shuts his eyes and inhales. His cock is fully stiff now, and the drag of Javert’s fingers over the places where wax had landed – now less exploratory, more firm, pressing and rubbing at the reddened patches – makes him brutally aware of the sensitive skin at the head of his prick, where it pushes swollen against his trousers. He arches up, involuntarily, and suddenly there are lips on his; Javert is kissing him and there is a barely-restrained hunger behind it. Valjean moans into the kiss, moans longer as Javert sweeps his hands up and down his forearms, calluses breaking away wax and rasping rough against delicate, heated skin – he can stand it no longer, he presses forward blindly, his body aching for sensation. “Please,” he begs.

Javert’s grip tightens on his wrists for a long moment. Then, “Say it again.”

The words seem to slip from Javert unwillingly; Valjean thinks he even detects a note of fear. He swallows and turns his face up, making his gaze as open and reassuring as possible. “ _Please._ ”

Javert’s expression changes – reluctance giving way to desperation, then to a terrified joy – then he slides from his chair, falling to his knees; their bodies press together, and Valjean’s arms are caught between them. He hisses as the cloth of Javert’s shirt rubs against his forearms, moans as Javert suddenly sinks his teeth into his neck, the shorter, sharper pain a clear note against the burning echoes of the wax on his arms – and a new sensation flares to life as Javert works his hand into Valjean’s trousers, curling his fingers about Valjean’s prick. 

Chafing heat from palm to the crook of the elbow, a throbbing ring where Javert’s teeth had pressed, the quick rough jerks of Javert’s hand – he clutches at Javert’s shirt, mind whirling, and comes, overwhelmed, pain and pleasure running molten into each other and spilling hot and wet over Javert’s hand.

 

The red marks have faded, by the end of the day; even the dents left by Javert’s teeth barely bruise, and disappear with the sunrise. He is clean, wiped clear of come and wax – but something has been uncovered, something has changed.

Javert looks at him with new eyes; his hand hovers, the wax ready to spill. “Say it again,” he commands.

“Please.” The wax is a scorching heat on his belly, his hips, his thighs. The drip moves in a narrowing circle, closing in on the center. Valjean shakes, tries to keep still. “Please.” Javert’s gaze is intent, dangerous, the distant politeness long gone. He no longer wears the cover of some echo of Madeleine, a falsehood layered on a falsehood. “ _Please_ –”

The first drop of wax strikes the head of his cock. He cries out, arching, ecstatic agony bursting through him, and Javert’s eyes gleam, watching him shake now with a better sort of pain.

**Author's Note:**

> I did research for this fic. Wax is not fun to scrape off bathroom sinks or off clothing, that is the thing I learned
> 
> also that sometimes you just gotta say fuck it and roll with what works best for the sake of porn


End file.
